General Salute, Present Arms
by Vyscaria
Summary: Francis, Arthur, Matthew, and Alfred visit Canada's Tomb of the Unknown Soldier as nations and as soldiers. They pay their respects and come to understand a profound truth in the process. France, America, Canada, and England; were they not all the same? A military fic, FACE family neutral support.


**General Salute, Present Arms**

Summary: Francis, Arthur, Matthew, and Alfred visit Canada's Tomb of the Unknown Soldier as nations and as soldiers. They pay their respects and come to understand a profound truth in the process.

Pairing: No pairings, just mutual acceptance and understanding.

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. This is a de-anon from the kinkmeme.

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The Canadian MSVS vehicle is a large truck with a huge open cargo hold, spacious enough to cram in fifty soldiers if they squeezed together. It clangs and rattles as it pulls itself down the winding highway, the atmosphere within solemn. As part of an annual UN meeting in Canada to assess the proficiency of her Armed Forces, Francis, Alfred, Arthur, and Matthew decided to pay a visit to Ottawa's Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. By an incredible coincidence, a platoon was already on its way to the location to pay their annual tribute to the tomb, and the four men needed only to jump in.

The truck screeches to a halt at a red light, and America collides with a soldier to his side- "sorry", they both mutter. Alfred squints, and in the shadow of the caravan he could just make out the soldier's name: _Griffin._ The truck begins to move again.

"We're almost there," the driver from the front calls, his voice traveling over the thin layer of cloth separating the truck's two compartments, "check your kit!"

"Check your kit!" Matthew calls out, _quite loudly, actually_… and the word of command is carried on. A flurry of action ensues as the thirty troops within rush to check their uniforms and flatten out their berets. The women tidy their hair and the men tuck in their boot laces. "Remember to remain professional at all times," Canada is saying, and a chorus of "yes Corporal"s ring out. Arthur is amused by the young nation sitting across from him, so different from the Canada he thought he knew. It takes a while for him to pick through his emotions and decide exactly what he must be feeling- pride. His eyes meet those of the platoon's commanding officer, Major Hyung. They nod briefly, mutual trust immediately established due to their profession of arms.

The MSVS draws into Ottawa's Confederate Square, and Francis knows this because they are on top of granite and light concrete, the floor takes on an ornate, decorated pattern, and the civilians are pointing and waving. He smiles back faintly. No matter how many times he has paid his respects to his own troops and those of other nations, the experience never gets any less jarring. He is an experienced nation, a soldier who'd taken part in far too many battles for his own good, yet he cannot forget that for him, things are different; he is still here, while these men and women are not.

Finally the vehicle draws to a halt. The troops can see each other's' breaths in the brisk October air. No one moves- as the driver makes arrangements on where they are to park and depart, the troops let their mind wander. They're wondering of the four strange men temporarily joining their platoon- Corporal Williams, for example. He's supposed to be a Master Marksman, with an exemplary military record. In truth, they don't know much about him, but there is something in his stature, in the way he holds himself, that fires them up. Private Griffin can't explain it- he wants to fight with this man. He wants to fight for this man. Then beside him is an American soldier who they know as Sergeant Jones. He's supposed to be with the Marines, and the Canadian troops have indeed not held back with their questions. Thankfully, the American seemed sociable and eager to answer. He could be mistaken for Corporal Williams' twin, which has become a running joke between the men over the last week. They asked him if he'd been to Afghanistan, and the Sergeant responds _"yes"_ with an uncharacteristic seriousness that left some of the inexperienced troops stunned.

Across from the two sit two European officers, and their presence indeed makes the soldiers somewhat uneasy. One of them- Major Kirkland, seems to have an expression that always defaults to serious. He's a slight, willowy man, and speaks very little. He regards the troops with something akin to scrutiny, and has an aura of expectation around him that forces the Canadian troops to sit up straighter than they ever have before. Then the man beside him, a French Capitaine, is well built with a sharp and somewhat disturbing sense of humour. Capitaine Bonnefoy can be surprisingly morbid when he wanted to, yet never late to jump in on a dirty joke or compromising situation. Nonetheless, the man's perpetual smirk is gone today- he avoids looking at the Canadians, instead focusing his sights on the waving maple leaf flag to the distance.

Their wait ends when the driver, a Master Corporal, appears at the mouth of the truck. "Alright- left lean back!" Everyone on the left flank of the MSVS pushes back, leaving the British Major and the French Capitaine briefly confused. The belt drawn across the vehicle's mouth is unhooked and a steel ladder drops. Within one minute, the entire vehicle is cleared.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the parade," Arthur whispers to Matthew once they are reasonably alone. Walking up the stairs to the Canadian War Memorial, the familiar sight of a redcoat ceremonial guard greets him, a potent reminder of Canada's duty to the Queen of England.

The Canadian nods, "I am more interested in spending some time here, maybe pay my own respects."

"Me too," Alfred adds, "I've fought with your men and women before, Matt. They were among the bravest I've ever seen."

At this, Matthew blinks back the prickling in the corner of his eyes. He looks to Francis, who nods his own mutual request. He's surprisingly quiet today.

"Then we will stay," Canada decides. His hand is shaking as he watches his men and women form up. Alfred squeezes his hand reassuringly, and claps him briefly on the back. The four men fall out of formation and hang a while back to overlook the assembling parade.

The platoon's platoon Warrant, Sergeant White, stamps his right foot on the ground and shouts- "Right marker!"

"Sergeant!" Pte Griffin yells out, comes to attention, and marches to just a pace before the sergeant. "11 Platoon, all 32 members present, awaiting your instruction Sergeant!"

"Fall in!"

And indeed, the troops file in and form up with expert precision in three ranks in front of the tomb. Once they've formed three neat ranks and dressed off, they perform a standard set of drills in perfect synchronization and stand at attention. The civilians begin taking pictures. Sgt White does an about-turn and stands at attention. Major Hyung marches onto the parade and halts in front of the two redcoat ceremonial guards. They fall out; taking two steps to the front, a sharp turn right, and march off. It's all much practiced, and the crisp movements are clean and abrupt. It doesn't take long to see that these men and women are truly professionals.

Major Hyung turns on his heel and marches up to Sergeant White. They both snap up a salute. A brief instruction is given, and then the two men salute each other once again. The Sergeant makes a right turn and marches off to fall in at the very last rank. The Major calls the parade, leading a precise set of marching and rifle drills that gets rifles spinning in the air, punctuated by the simultaneous clapping of boots and the slapping of white gloves on rifle butts.

Matthew keeps his eyes on the Tomb itself, the two ceremonial guards standing still as stone on each side. It is an imposing structure, tall and demanding attention like nothing he'd ever seen before. An archway topped with three large surmounting winged statues symbolizing liberty, and sheltered underneath the arch stand 23 bronze soldiers, representing the eleven branches of the Canadian Forces engaged in the First World War. He is brought back to his days as an infanteer in said war, having been too proud to work in logistics and too humble to be an officer. He'd seen true suffering then, and the Canadians, amongst incredible oppression, proved their worth to the world. Since then, their reputation has only increased.

The parade ends, and the flustered civilians are shocked for a moment, and then are unsure as to whether they should clap. They don't, much to Matthew's relief. Sergeant White gives a heart-warming speech to the troops, but the four nations are standing two far away to hear. Something about how Canadians have prevailed over struggling, how it is thanks to those who have fallen. The Sergeant speaks of the soldier buried in the tomb, introduces him and speaks of his significance. No one knows exactly who he is, obviously, but he was taken from a cemetery filled with the casualties of Vimy Ridge, a significant Canadian battle in the First World War. Canada lets all this wash over him, having heard the story countless times in the past.

"Who is it?" Alfred asks him out of the corner of his mouth, and Matthew hushes him. As a nation, he had certain… intuitions, but nonetheless he'd rather not put a face to the tomb, for it represents the sacrifices of soldiers past and present, and ultimately those of the future. He looks into the impressive statue and remembers the faces of the men and women he'd fought beside in Bosnia, in Yugolsavia, Somalia, and most recently in Afghanistan. He swallows hard.

The parade eventually wraps up, and the ceremonial guards resume their positions. Before they know it, the day is darkening and the troops are loading up once again into the MSVS. Sgt White regards Cpl Williams awkwardly, feeling intuitively that something is amiss with this man, something that sets him apart from the rest. Yet he can't put his finger on it.

"Corporal, you ready to go?"

"Actually, Sergeant, we'd like to stay."

The Sergeant is not pleased. "Do you have a ride arranged?" He doesn't trust the young Corporal, doesn't know enough about him. Matthew sees this and purses his lips.

Thankfully, Arthur cuts in, "yes, please don't worry about us." He smiles calmly, and the Canadian soldier has no choice but to stammer "y-yes sir" and push the last of his platoon into the truck. Matthew looks back once more at 11 Platoon, the men and women who he'd gotten to know so well over the past week. Some of them wave sadly at him as the vehicle pulls away.

Finally, they are alone; a Canadian Corporal, a US Marines Sergeant, a British Major, and a French Capitaine. They looked at one another in the middle of that dispersing crowd and knew that they had each other- they always had and always would, until the bitter end. They approach the tomb together, but it is Canada who walks up its steps and kneels at its base- the guards don't stop him.

Matthew wants to say something, wants dearly to procure some sort of discourse to wrap up the conflicting emotions in his breast, but instead finds himself speechless. He listens to the awkward tumble of his heart, feels the cold air biting his cheeks, the ground's coolness seeping up from his knees. So many have died for him, for Canada, so many young bright spirits have gone to protect him. At times Canada is crushed by the guilt, but then he looks around and takes in the affluent nation he has become in all aspects of the fact, and comes to a comforting understanding that they had not died in vain. He's personally seen the deaths of too many soldiers, and heard of many more- not all nations decide to actively fight with their troops, but Matthew thought it was the least he could do. Arthur was a Major. Canada could be a Major if he wanted, but he yearned that closeness with his fellow Canadians, longed to be by their side as much as possible. Nonetheless sometimes Matthew thinks Arthur and Francis are very smart- the officers don't feel the deaths of the soldiers like they do, not like the pain of having a limb torn from their body again and again. Perhaps they have gotten used to the pain, or can no longer endure it.

Matthew takes a deep breath and rises shakily; Alfred catches his arm and steadies him.

"May we?"

Canada nods and steps aside, watching the three other nations respectfully remove their headdresses and drop a knee in front of the tomb. There is a fire in his belly now that makes him sweat despite the cold. As the clouds part above them, Canada can already see the North Star. It's late.

He remembers his long nights in the trenches of World War Two, listening to his men pour out their regrets and sadness and impossible hope for the future. He remembers his nights in Afghanistan, looking up at the sky and marvelling how the same sky can overlook such different worlds. By the light of day, the Canadian troops are practically inhuman. But by night his soldiers become human again- they are afraid, alone, anxious, sometimes depressed, mostly nostalgic. No one wants to die in the dark, no one wants to be forgotten, no one wants to be alone.

The decision is made in a slice of a second. When the three men finally stand and replace their headdresses, Canada asks them. England volunteers eagerly, and France and America simultaneously nod their agreement.

It's not difficult to have it arranged. Though civilians have no concept of the nations, certain dignitaries have a vague understanding. The Prime Minister, of course, and luckily he can pull a few strings in a fairly short amount of time. Soon the four men are in the Cartier Square Drill Hall, clad in the ceremonial dress of the guards. They meet the Drum Major, who shakes their hands aggressively and honestly gives no fuck that he's crushing the two European Officers' hands. This is the second and last Changing of the Guard ceremony of the day. At exactly 20:00, they "quick march, double time" out onto the east lawn of Parliament Hill with the band in tow. There is a Scottish influence here, Arthur muses, and is pleased to see that his body knows from muscle memory exactly what to do. Once they arrive back at Confederate Square, the old guards come to attention and march off to the west side while Matthew and Alfred stand at the east. In the dusk they can still make out the features of the men standing what feels like a half a field across from them. One of them, Matthew picks out, is south Asian. The corner of his mouth quirks up. Two Sergeant Majors advance to inspect the old and new guards. They're not doing this for the tourists- they actually care about their troops. He tucks in Alfred's strings and ensures all their buttons are done up. "How are you boys?"

"Good," Canada and America reply in unison.

"Twins?"

Both look slightly sheepish. Before they can reply, the Sergeant Major yells "Get on Parade!" The tune of 'The British Grenadiers' start to play, and the two form up dressed with the Sergeants of the guard. After another inspection by the Company Commander, they present arms and march to take up the ground from the old guards. While at present arms, the old and new guards salute each other. Alfred lowers his hand half a second too slow, but it's barely noticeable. O Canada begins to play. Matthew can no longer move his head, but he can see Francis and Arthur from the corner of his eye. He feels a certain pride and deep gratitude to see them standing in his uniform, saluting his men, standing at attention to his anthem. After the last note of the national anthem fades off into the distance, the parade forms into three ranks and the old guards fall in at the rear to march off slowly from the parade square.

There are no words shared between he and Alfred, they are silent and still as stone. Though America is a little goofy at times, there is no doubt the man can be serious when the time comes around. Canada turns up his nose because his sinuses are stinging, sniffles a bit underneath all his layers. He is standing guard over those who have died to serve and protect him, and he won't let them be forgotten in the night. They will not be alone.

In an hour, the sounds of two guards making their way up the steps to replace them snaps Canada out of his reverie. His nose feels a little frostbitten. He cannot see their faces, but by the way they walk he knows exactly who they are. He and Alfred come to attention and march off, letting Francis and Arthur take their place. The exchange is all silent, but the gesture meant a million words to the Canadian. He entrusts the tomb and all that it represents to England and France, and start the slow walk back to the Drill Hall with America.

Francis has been keeping to himself most of the day- this is because Canada never ceases to surprise him. Ottawa is a confounding playground of French and English influences, and it confuses Francis because he doesn't want to think about all the history there, all the struggles that raged to build Canada out of the dirt. And here he was, less than two hundred years later, independent and proudly bilingual. It hurts because it reminds Francis of how much he needs Britain, how much the other nation needs him, how much they all need each other. They've fought alongside one another, at one point all four of them came face to face in Afghanistan. It was a remarkable coincidence as neither of them planned on it, but it showed Francis just how intertwined they all were. Canada's soldiers are his soldiers, just like his are America's, and America's are England's. They are brothers in arms, neither one stronger than the other, their strength only capable of measurement when applied together.

The temperature drops to below zero as midnight draws near, but Francis doesn't feel the cold under the blanket of shame that washes over him, the shame that he will never be able to give back what his men and indeed, Canada's soldiers have given to them. France's history is long and winding, riddled by a number of bloody wars; victories and defeats. Far too many have died, and Francis only wants Matthew to be spared of that horrifying reality. He knows the Englishman feels the same, that he acknowledges Canada's sacrifice over the years, joining the first and second World Wars to defend Britain almost of his own volition, to send his troops into the most hostile districts in the middle east. They all needed each other, so standing here in the cold, paying wordless respects to Canada's fallen soldiers felt… profoundly right. They would watch over them, they who raised Canada into the world as an independent nation and world power, those who loved him with a ferocity they could never in a million years replicate.

He can tell Arthur doesn't want to leave by the time the third round of sentries show up- the Englishman has stood guard in the past for entire nights, but rules are rules. As they turn to leave, they give one last fleeting glance to the tomb. Perhaps it is just late, perhaps it's the wind whistling in the trees, but Arthur can swear he hears quiet words being spoken to him: _protect them,_ the voice speaks, and Arthur swallows.

Yes. _Yes, he will._ He will protect Canada's soldiers and those of France and America as he would his own. Francis thinks he must be hallucinating, but he hears something too: he doesn't catch exactly what the wind is telling him, but all he wants to do is to draw all the three other nations into a tight embrace and reassure them that all will be alright, that a better day is just a sunrise away.

This is what he does when they reunite with Matthew and Alfred in the Drill Hall, and all four of them, for the first time that long day, feel a stone being lifted from their chests. The clock strikes twelve. As they press their heads together in the solitude of the hall, they feel like feathers being picked up by the wind, by the souls and blessed spirits of the fallen. And on this warm breeze, they are delivered into the next day.

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"General Salute, Present Arms" is a drill movement that is called for military funerals and many special events, including the changing of the guard. With a rifle, it is conducted by holding the rifle butt up with the right hand, slapping the handguards with the left, and pulling it down so that the barrel is lined up with the throat of the soldier (not pointing to).

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